


A Christmas Goose

by Kinggorilla



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Christmas Eve, Cold, Eventual Smut, F/M, Snow, chase - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 08:02:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21960058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kinggorilla/pseuds/Kinggorilla
Summary: Everyone looks forward to Christmas Eve, but unexpected things always seem to crop up at the last second.
Relationships: Samantha "Sam" Carter/Jack O'Neill
Comments: 13
Kudos: 67





	A Christmas Goose

**Author's Note:**

> This is smut.  
> Well, to be fair, it's a regular story that devolves into smut before digging itself out again and bravely soldiering on. You might think of it as a tale that pulls itself up by its bootstraps, from humble beginnings, etc.
> 
> This is my first attempt at writing smutty things, so take that into account. Explosions and gunfights are my strong suits.
> 
> There is some spicy language, so... earmuffs, kids.  
> Actually, you kids shouldn't be reading this trash, anyhow. Go try something light. I hear "To Kill A Mockingbird" is lovely this time of year.
> 
> Enjoy.
> 
> And Merry Christmas, even if you're reading this in July.
> 
> Hell, ESPECIALLY if you're reading this in July.
> 
> P.s. it's come to my attention that this is called "eventual smut". So, there ya go. I learned something. On Christmas Day. Bonus points.

O’Neill stood perfectly still and listened to cold rain pattering off his poncho. He could vaguely hear Carter trying to sneak through the underbrush to his rear. There was a hole somewhere in the poncho; an icy wet spot had appeared at the small of his back and was slowly spreading. He _harrumph_ -ed and watched his breath turning to steam in air that wasn’t quite cold enough for snow. Grumpy-looking rain clouds shrouded them in gloom.

Scowling, he attempted to channel the spirits of his ancient warrior ancestors in a vain hope they could impart some of the stoic courage history had credited them with. It didn’t work. Today was December 24th, _Christmas Eve_ for Pete’s sake, and his store of patience was nearly exhausted. 

Yesterday, the 23rd, the SGC-operated deep space listening post on P8x-XXX had gone haywire, transmitting electronic gibberish for two minutes before going silent. Painstaking analysis of the automated signal had indicated a failure of the antenna aiming module, an innocent looking thumb-sized plastic widget. Consulting the spec sheet for the part in question indicated anticipated failure after 700 work cycles. Cross-referencing the duty log, it was discovered that the widget had failed right on schedule at 700 work cycles.

O’Neill had done a fair bit of grousing about the genius of Uncle Sam using parts that were known to have a short life expectancy, while pointing out that his Ford pickup had over 200,000 miles on it. Carter had countered that Ford Motor company didn’t make spy satellites, and Hammond had tamped down the discussion before things started to get heated.

The listening post would have to be repaired, the sooner, the better. It was, he reminded them, a vital tool for keeping tabs on the Goa’uld. Getting intel from the Tok’ra was all well and good, but it tended to be spotty at best, and usually focused on things that interested the Tok’ra, not the SGC. There were eight automated listening posts scattered around this quadrant of space, unobtrusively vacuuming up any electronic intelligence that came their way. They had proved an invaluable asset, affording the SGC the opportunity to move in whatever direction seemed best to them.

A team would have to be sent to replace the defective module. Casting an eye over the duty roster revealed the Air Force equivalent of a ghost town. Two teams were in the field already. One had been placed on medical leave after having been roughed up in the field. The rest were on holiday leave until the beginning of next week, barring emergencies. That only left SG-1.

Or actually, the remains of SG-1. Teal’c was out fomenting rebellion among the Jaffa with Master Bra’tac and M’Zel. Dr. Jackson was supervising a dig on the Unas homeworld which was supposed to, “reveal something new and exciting,” in his words. So that left O’Neill and Carter, sitting in Hammond’s office trying really hard to come up with an excuse that wouldn’t sound like an excuse, and failing miserably.

O’Neill had expressed his hopes this could be accomplished quickly, preferably this afternoon. Hammond shot that down immediately. The part in question was being Fed-Ex’d overnight from Miami. It would be here tomorrow. 

Tomorrow.

The 24th.

 _Christmas Eve_.

Which brought him here, to P8X-XXX, with cold rain seeping through a hole in his poncho.

The sensor array had been planted on the top of a thickly forested hill located adjacent to the stargate. Most of the listening posts had been left adrift in deep space, but the structure of P8X-XXX had been conducive to dirtier tricks than that. The planet's crust was riddled with silicon crystal deposits, literally turning the whole world into an immense radio receiver. There wasn’t a transmission within 10,000 light-years that was going to slip by them. 

Carter pushed through the crackling underbrush to stand by him, looking like a slightly damp elf in her camouflage poncho. At their feet lay the offending sensor array. It was unimpressive to say the least, being a metal box about the size of a picnic basket. Two thick cables ran from one side of the box and were attached to a pair of copper rods driven deep into the ground.

“Not much to look at, is it?,” O’Neill asked.

“Didn’t need to be any bigger,” Carter explained, in a hushed voice. For some reason, she felt the need to be small and quiet. Intellectually, she knew the array was for capturing electromagnetic information, and it wouldn’t matter if a marching band paraded by, but something about “spy satellite” made her want to be slinky and furtive.

"No sense waiting for the Ghost of Christmas Present to put in an appearance, " O'Neill growled. "Let's get to it."

Carter untabbed the sling on her P90 and strapped it across her back so she could work freely. She slid a small zippered case from her thigh pocket and opened it, disclosing the neat chromed rows of a miniature tool kit. Selecting the appropriate socket, she attacked the array's casing with gusto. She heard a soft rustling sound and spared a glance to see O’Neill shrugging his poncho to one side and doing his best to hold it over her head so she could work out of the rain.

"Awww, sir, that's very sweet of you, " she commented, trying to keep things light and breezy.

"I figure electronics shouldn't get wet, right?," he ventured, going with the first excuse that sprang to mind. 

She could have pointed out that the array was engineered to withstand the rigors of deep space, and there was no way rain would affect it in the least, but it was a very thoughtful gesture, and she couldn't bring herself to ask him to stop. It was nice to be fussed over once in a while. 

Temporarily out of the elements, she pushed back her poncho’s hood and got to work. It took less than a minute to crack the casing open. These had been designed with ease of access in mind. The company that built them legitimately thought they were spy satellites, so _ergo_ , any repairs would be done by astronauts in orbit. Spacewalking astronauts, it should be pointed out, are not well known for liking to fiddle with tiny parts.

Opening the cover, she quickly powered down the array. Then the fun started.

"I have to discharge the capacitor, sir," she explained, selecting a screwdriver from the tool kit.

"By all means, discharge away," he agreed, not really paying attention to what she was saying. He had always been fascinated watching her work, the way her slim, nimble fingers could dance around, untangling problems like magic. He wasn’t especially thrilled to be here, but if he _had_ to be here, then indulging his favorite past time of watching Carter was some compensation. 

"Here goes," she warned, laying the metal blade of the screwdriver across the capacitor’s contacts. A brilliant blue arc shot out to one side as the small, powerful battery dumped it's electrical charge into the damp air, accompanied by a deafening _Zzzzap_! sound.

O’Neill jumped clear off the ground in surprise. 

"WhutintheHellwasthat?!," he blurted, all at once.

"That was the capacitor, sir," Carter explained, ducking her head and doing her best to hide a grin.

“Holy moly, you coulda warned me,” he grumbled. She let the comment slide.

It only took a few seconds to unplug the faulty module and slip the new one in place with a satisfying _click_.

“Almost done, Colonel,” she reassured him. “Just have to connect the new capacitor, and…”

She was interrupted by the unmistakable sound of the stargate activating. Instinctively, both looked over to see what was going on, and O’Neill inadvertently dipped one edge of the outstretched poncho, sending a stream of cold water down the sweet spot between Carter’s neck and her poncho’s hood. She let out a most uncharacteristic squawk of indignation and he flinched away, realizing what he’d done.

“Aw, crap,” he began to apologize, but she waved it off, angling to get a better view.

“I wonder who it is?,” she asked, rhetorically, O’Neill supposed.

“Not one of ours,” he murmured. “We weren’t going to be here long enough to justify backup.”

“Maybe Teal’c-,” Carter suggested, but O’Neill only shook his head and scowled as they watched the chevrons light up. He suddenly had a nasty, twisty feeling in his gut.

“Shut that thing up,” he ordered tersely. “We may have to scoot.”

Knowing better than to try to second guess him, Carter shut the lid and ran two fasteners down finger-tight. O’Neill shrugged off his poncho, and had just draped it over the array when the wormhole opened with the old, familiar _ka-whoosh_! It’s bright incoming flash cut through the gloom like a searchlight. The event horizon had scarcely stabilized when the armored forms of a half-dozen jaffa poured through. They forked to the left and right sides of the platform apron rather than walking down the middle. 

Carter and O’Neill shared a look. While surprises could be pleasant, like finding $20 in your coat pocket, this one was not. Their quick and easy afternoon jaunt had just taken a wrong turn.

One of the jaffa, presumably an officer of some sort, surveyed the wet patch of ground in front of the gate platform. He barked several orders they were too far away to hear, and four of his party split off in different directions, loping into the scrubby underbrush with a rasp of chain mail. The fifth man, he gestured, was to remain at the gate, acting as a guard.

O’Neill grabbed a handful of Carter’s poncho and gently pulled her back into heavier cover.

“What now?,” she asked quietly. “Try to finish the array?”

“How long to wrap it up?”

“Maybe five minutes.”

He shook his head.

“Unless that guy’s a complete doofus, he knows there’s only two of us. We left a trail a blind man could follow. Now we play hide and seek for a little while. Maybe they get bored and leave, maybe we have to figure out something else later. For now, we clear the area.”

She nodded understanding. Unless they intended to duke it out, stealth was the best bet. Having a shootout with a pack of jaffa would pretty much nullify this world’s usefulness as an intelligence-gathering tool. Avoiding contact, and above all, being identified, was of paramount importance.

They retraced their steps down the hill, moving quickly. The closer they were to the gate, the likelier it was they would be spotted. O’Neill led the way as they cut across a clearing and through a more lightly-forested area. Both kept their ears alert for the telltale clink of metal on metal, or the dreaded hooting of the search party’s communication horns.

The low-hanging clouds took on a grumpier look and the cold rain changed to sleet. O’Neill’s coat was getting rather soggy, but the wet hadn’t soaked all the way through yet. They knelt by the shelter of a fallen log, and he took the opportunity to wring his stocking cap out.

“How far do we go, sir?,” Carter asked. She noted with some satisfaction that he was breathing harder than she was. Age may have been a running gag between them, but under these circumstances, it could turn out to be no joke.

He readjusted his headgear before answering.

“I figure we’ll make a big loop around to the far side of the gate, away from the direction we came in. If they’re being dumb, they might not think to search that way. If we’re lucky, we may find something like this,” he pointed his thumb at the fallen log, “only on a larger scale and hole up for a while. A fire’s out of the question, but I’d rather them being the ones tramping around out in the cold while we’re somewhere snug and dry.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” she agreed, then added, “You should have held on to your poncho.”

“I didn’t have time to get better camouflage. If they find that sensor array, all this is for nothing,” he rebutted. “It’s worth getting wet over.”

“Not if you catch your death of cold,” she parried.

“Anything happens to me, you get an instant promotion,” he pointed out.

“That’s not how I want my career to progress,” she bit back, a little more sharply than she intended. 

“Merciful heavens,” O’Neill stage-whispered, “sometimes I think she actually cares about me.”

Carter didn’t reply, but flushed bright pink to the tips of her ears.

“Not fair,” she finally managed to murmur.

“Quite right,” he muttered in shamefaced apology.

In the distance, to their far right echoed the honking of one of the jaffa horns. One of the search party had found something.

“Took them long enough,” Carter said, glad to have any excuse to mask her embarrassment.

“Amateurs,” O’Neill agreed, then lead off, circling further to their left. 

The temperature dropped noticeably as they entered a more sparsely forested area. They thanked their lucky stars there was no wind as the sleet transitioned over to a dry, powdery snow. Several hundred yards to their rear, one of the jaffa horns sounded.

“They’ve finally struck our trail,” O’Neill said conversationally, as though discussing whether to buy white or wheat bread at the grocery store.

“So now it’s a race?,” Carter prompted.

“Not necessarily,” he replied. “We’ve got a good lead, and I know a dirty trick or two to throw them off.” He ducked to avoid a tree branch as they cut back into the forest. It was, he noticed, developing icicles. It was time to stop playing and find cover. The jaffa might be Goa’uld-protected against frostbite and cold in general, but Air Force personnel were not. 

“Feel like sharing your wisdom, O Great Hunter of Men?,” Carter asked solemnly.

O’Neill came to a dead stop and looked at her in surprise.

“Was that a joke?,” he asked in disbelief.

By way of answer, she shrugged and gave him an impish smile. It was her ultimate defense against anything he threw her way, and it never failed to work.

“Hunh,” he said. “Who’d’a thunk it?” 

They skirted the foot of a ridge that stretched away to their right, forming one side of a low valley that trailed off into the distance.

“Normally,” he huffed, “I’d be looking for a stream or creek. We could go upstream or downstream in the waterway and these gomers would have no idea where we went to.”

“Given the cold, I vote against that idea,” she commented.

“The motion is seconded and passes unanimously,” he said in his most officious tone of voice.

“So what happens now, Mr. Chairman?,” she asked innocently.

They tried to slide delicately through a thicket that was completely coated in ice. Despite their best contortions, a blind bat could have followed the trail they left. Bulls in china shops had nothing on Jack O’Neill at times.

“Now we try to find a nice rocky patch of ground,” he said, once the ice stopped _crunch_ -ing to the ground. “Three or four steps in and the mud wears off our feet, we can go any direction we want and no one’s the wiser. That’s why I’ve been sticking to the edge of the forest; it’s more likely to find what we want there.”

“Wouldn’t we have a better chance striking out for those ranges?,” she indicated a low line of mountains in the distance.

“Yes,” he allowed. “But there’s no cover to speak of for miles. We’d stick out like a booger on a plate glass window.”

“Eloquent as always,” she mumbled, but the point was well made.

The radio erupted in a burst of squelch.

“SG-1, this is Hammond; what is your status?”

They could practically hear the growl in his voice.

“I don’t know whether to be surprised or not,” O’Neill confided to Carter before toggling the two-way.

“Our status is kind of complicated, General,” he replied.

“I assume the repairs did not go as planned, colonel?,” Hammond’s voice crackled. "You're overdue."

“You presume correctly, sir,” O’Neill affirmed. “There are jaffa in control of the gate.”

“Do you need backup?”

“Negative, sir, we’re not currently in any danger. We saw them coming in time to skedaddle. No contact was made, and I’m pretty sure they have no idea who we are. They’re currently in a slow-speed pursuit of us. The weather’s turned dogshit, general; I don’t expect them to keep this up much longer.”

“What are your intentions, Jack?,” Hammond asked, voice tinged with concern.

“We’ll find a likely-looking spot and go to ground, sir. I doubt they’ll have much stomach for tramping through snow after a while.” 

“Use your best judgement, colonel.”

“Sir,” Carter interrupted, “communications will be problematic, considering we don’t control the gate.”

“Understood, major,” Hammond replied. “We’ll reestablish contact in four hours, and every four hours after that, if necessary.”

“General, given the situation, I’m recommending that our GDO’s be locked out if we are not in communication every four hours,” O’Neill said.

Hammond fell silent for a few moments.

“Very well, colonel,” he finally replied. “As you’re the man on the scene, it’s your call. In that event, authentication code ‘M’ will be in force.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Good luck, Jack. Hammond out.”

“God bless us, every one,” O’Neill said as the radio fell silent.

“What’s authentication code ‘M’?,” Carter asked. “I’ve never heard of that one.”

O’Neill looked somber.

“It’s something Hammond and I worked out a while ago. Code ‘M’ is Groucho, Harpo, Chico.”

“The authentication code is _the Marx Brothers?_ ,” she asked, incredulous.

He shrugged.

“Would you have ever guessed it?”

The horn sounded again, much closer this time.

“All right, “ he huffed. “ _Last of the Mohicans_ time; haul ass.”

He slapped her back in encouragement, and they took off, loping along easily, knowing that they only had to outdistance their pursuers until they gave up. The snow was falling heavier, coating the underbrush in a silent white blanket. The water that had soaked into O’Neill’s coat froze and flaked away, leaving the outer shell bone dry. Matching Carter, he slid his P90 around onto his back, allowing greater freedom of movement as he ran.

Up and down gentle slopes, through greater and lesser patches of trees, they hustled, maintaining a steady pace. This had taken on more the aspect of a game than serious business. As O’Neill had said, as long as they maintained a decent lead, they were in no danger, aside from the elements.

A light breeze sprang up, swirling snow around them, and both wished they had brought honest-to-goodness cold weather gear. Of course, this was supposed to be a literal fifteen minute jaunt, so they had minimal equipment of any variety. Finding decent shelter was starting to evolve from being a good idea to being a necessity.

Their headlong charge was suddenly brought up short. A small stream, the first body of water they had seen so far, barred the way. Turning, they wordlessly followed it upstream. It wasn’t large, at no point being more than fifteen feet across, but it might have been a castle moat full of alligators for all that they were able to cross. The sluggish flow was beginning to get slushy on top, and in places snow started to accumulate. Fording it would have been suicide, as wet equalled death in this cold, so they followed its course, waiting to see where it led.

The horn sounded again, drawing ever closer.

“You know,” Carter observed, “we could ambush that guy, real easy.” 

She waggled her P90 meaningfully.

“Now, now,” O’Neill chided jokingly. “Can’t have any telltales.”

“Dead men tell no tales,” she replied in the same vein.

He looked at her for a moment, trying to gauge if she was serious or not.

“Don’t go all Pirate Queen on me, Carter. Bad guys find one of their henchmen with more holes than a swiss cheese, won’t take much thinking to figure out who did it. ‘S far as I know, we’re the only galactic movers and shakers that don’t use energy weapons.”

“I wasn’t being serious, sir,” she deadpanned.

He was about to voice his relief when a horn sounded off to their right. It wasn’t the same one that had been following to the rear. It’s tone and timbre was different. It was also far too close for comfort.

“That’s not a good thing,” he grumbled instead.

They picked up the pace, following the stream. Rounding a bend, they came upon what O’Neill had been hoping to find. At some point in the distant past, a tree had fallen across the stream, it’s trunk straddling the waterway from one bank to the other. It was sunken deeply into the dirt, and what they could see through the growing layer of snow bore a fine assortment of mosses and lichens, but it looked sturdy enough.

“There’s our ticket,” O’Neill said giddily.

He jumped up onto the exposed end of the log and hopped up and down a few times, testing its solidity. Didn’t even budge.

“Up ya go,” he told Carter, offering a steadying hand. Ignoring it, she swarmed up next to him.

“Well, ok then,” he said, eyeing her speculatively. He led the way, moving at a slow but steady pace. The tree _seemed_ sturdy, but no sense taking chances. Halfway across, it groaned, settling further into the far river bank. O’Neill and Carter gyrated wildly, barely maintaining their balance.

“Perhaps not one of my better ideas,” O’Neill remarked. “Shall we go back, major?”

Her face set in a determined mask.

“‘He who puts his hand to the plow and looks back is not worthy’,” she quoted.

“How very Old Testament of you,” he snarked. “While you’re at it, could you do the whole Moses bit, and part the stream?”

Whatever she would have said was lost forever as a two foot section snapped off the farther end of the log. The broken section of trunk crashed to the stony bank, jarring both of the log’s occupants with a tooth - rattling crash. By some miracle, O’Neill managed to straddle the log, taking a solid hit to the groin, but the impact sent Carter flailing into the stream.

The moment she hit the surface, her body recoiled with an involuntary gasp of shock, sucking in a lungful of the brackish stream. The frigid water burned, numbing hands and face. Her poncho ballooned out, fouling her efforts to right herself. She could tell which direction was up, but swimming through the gelid water was akin to trying to dog paddle through a giant slurpee. 

O’Neill watched in horror as she windmilled into the water. He would never afterwards be able to recall how he got there so quickly, but suddenly he was _there_ , hanging from the log, vainly trying to grab the carry handle sewn on the back of her tac vest. The poncho kept getting in the way, so he settled for grabbing its hood and using it to yank her to the surface.

In his panic, he nearly jerked her head into the bottom side of the log, but checked her path at the last second, and pulled her, sputtering and choking, astraddle the tree trunk. She was shivering uncontrollably, nearly to the point of having spasms, and immediately coughed water all over him. Taking that as a good sign, he grabbed a fistful of lapel and dragged her across the remaining distance to the far bank.

Carter crashed onto the gravelly bank, streaming water, and still coughing violently. He managed to get her arms over her head, and pound on her back which helped get the last of the water clear of her lungs.

“Shit,” she managed to say, shaking so hard her teeth were chattering.

“You could say that,” O’Neill agreed, trying to be relaxed and breezy, but thinking furiously. Carter had maybe two minutes, three at the outside, before things started to go really bad for her. She needed shelter, and she needed it _now_.

He looked around, forcing himself into calmness. Panic in the moment had been fine, it had sharpened his reflexes, and made him faster than he would have been otherwise, but now it was the enemy. Now he needed a cool head. He dredged everything he could out of his memory from survival training and twenty-plus years of field work. He needed to be sharp. _Sam_ needed him to be sharp. He flicked a quick glance at her.

She was noticeably paler than normal, fair complexion notwithstanding. She was trying to smooth her sopping wet hair, but her hands didn’t seem to want to cooperate too well.

 _Fuck_ , he thought. _Coordination’s going. Next is incapacitation, then unconsciousness._

Nope. That wasn’t going to happen, not on his watch.

Just inside the line of the forest was the jagged trunk of the tree that spanned the stream. It had been a mighty patriarch of the forest; the remaining stump was over four feet tall, and almost that big around. He hit the top of the bank at a run, pulling several lengthy chunks of driftwood along with him.

Working quickly, he slapped together a rough lean-to, supplementing his driftwood with more fallen branches from the forest floor. Luckily, this was an uninhabited world, so no one had scavenged for firewood since ever, and there was plenty lying around. 

He took a moment to survey his handiwork. It would never pass muster; he would have been laughed out of SERE school for this monstrosity, but it would do. O’Neill flitted back down to the riverbank. 

Carter was still shivering violently, clumsily grasping at her poncho. He couldn’t figure out if she was trying to straighten it, or take it off. He knelt and grasped her hands. They were icy cold to the touch.

“Christ Almighty,” he murmured. He cradled her face in his hands. Her skin was white and waxy.

“Sam?,” he asked. She looked at him dully, not comprehending.

“CARTER!,” he belted out.

She blinked, and sanity returned to her eyes.

“Sir,” she mumbled weakly. “This is bad.”

“Sure ain’t good,” he agreed, levering her to her feet. She stumbled uncertainly, as if walking was something she’d heard about, but never done before. He half-supported, half carried her up the riverbank and toward the lean-to. Hesitating for just a moment, he stripped off her poncho and dripping coat, laying the latter over the back of the lean-to, and draping the former over the top, so that whatever water-repellent properties it had would serve as a roof. 

"You still with me?," he asked. 

Carter managed am incoherent grumble, then rallied and forced out, "Now and forever, sir, I'm yours."

He didn’t know whether to chalk that up to delirium or a poor attempt at a joke.

"I know you're a modest woman, buy you've gotta get out of those wet clothes. You understand?"

She nodded numbly and began fumbling with her belt. With that successfully untabbed, she tried unbuttoning her pants, but the task was beyond her disobedient fingers. 

Meanwhile, O'Neill grabbed a double handful of debris from the forest floor and liberally sprinkled it over the improvised shelter to visually break up its outline. Given a few more minutes, he fumed, he could have made this thing disappear, but that was time he didn't have. He quickly dug through his vest pockets and pulled out an emergency survival blanket, spreading it on the floor of the lean-to. 

It wasn’t truly a blanket, being essentially a sheet of aluminized mylar film. In theory, the aluminum coating would reflect body heat back to the user; in practice their effectiveness was very much in the eye of the beholder. The only thing anyone could say for sure was that the damned things were noisy, kicking up a crinkly ruckus at the slightest movement. At the moment, that was all he had, so that was what he used.

Carter was at a standstill. What was left of her intellect was screaming at her body to get a move on, but nothing was happening. Reacting to the cold and shock, her body was shutting down, drawing blood flow from her extremeties to her core to preserve and protect the vital system of heart and lungs. Cautioning himself to be patient with her lack of progress, O’Neill swept her up and laid her on the shiny blanket as gently as he could. 

The horn sounded again, maddeningly near. With the Jaffa this close, a fire was out of the question. 

"All in good time, gentlemen, all in good time," he groused over his shoulder. 

Without waiting on decorum, he yanked her shirt over her head. Her lips, he noticed were starting to take on a bluish tinge, and her skin was noticeably colder to the touch than it had been moments ago.

"Stay with me, Sam," he murmured softly, unbuttoning her pants and sliding them down to her boots. A thousand times in his innermost naughty thoughts he had fantasized about undressing her, but never had he dreamed it would be under these circumstances. He practically ripped the boots and socks off her feet in his haste before flipping the other half of the mylar sheet over her. At this point, modesty was completely out the window, lost in other considerations. 

He draped her shirt and pants over the lean-to's entrance, making as much of a door as he could. Their mud - smeared surfaces would be as good as any camouflage he could come up with. He rummaged through her tac vest until he found her emergency blanket. Like everything else she owned at the moment, it was dripping wet. Frowning, he allowed that at this point it didn't much matter. He peeled off his coat, and unfolding the delicate film on the ground, he rolled down on it, then manhandled Carter’s unresisting form over, moving the sheet out of the way so she lay directly on top of him. He laid his coat on top of her, and then wrapped the loose ends of the mylar blanket around them both until he had constructed something vaguely resembling a silvery Carter-and-O'Neill burrito.

Carter’s eyes were open, but stared vacantly. Her flesh was icy to the touch, her breath came in gasps and he could feel her heart fluttering in her chest like a panicked canary in a cage. He feared the worst was about to happen.

"Sam?," he whispered gently.

She muttered something he couldn’t make out, then said, "I'm cold, dad."

His breath caught in his chest and his eyes were suddenly very watery for no good reason. Softly, he stroked her hair.

"It's gonna be alright, kiddo. It's gonna be alright."

He shifted slightly, and did his best to pillow her head on his chest. He was afraid to hug her too tightly. Her breathing relaxed into a more normal pattern, and he tucked the coat a little more closely around her head. He'd done everything in his power; now it was a matter of wait and see.

For several minutes they lay in total silence, with him listening to the soft ebb and flow of her breathing. Outraged nature asserted herself, and Carter slipped off into a deep, natural sleep. 

A new sound suddenly tickled O’Neill’s ears: an odd scraping, slithery sound that made him think of snakes, and he wilted just a little. This was no time for a run-in with the local fauna. After a few more repetitions he recognized it as the rasp of chain mail over armor, and his guts clenched even tighter.

Too late, he realized both of their P90s were at the back of the shelter where they’d been tossed without a second thought in his frantic rush to get Carter under cover. Wrapped up tightly as they were, he couldn’t reach them without causing a lot of crinkly noise. Gingerly, he eased his right hand off of Carter’s back and inched it down to his side, feeling the reassuring outline of his pistol’s butt. He unsnapped the retaining strap and loosened the sidearm in its holster. The peculiar squeaky rubbing sound of snow being compressed under booted feet sounded close by, and he realized the jaffa was no more than a few feet away.

Feverishly praying that Carter stayed unconscious, he mentally steeled himself for the makeshift doorway to be ripped open. He thought it through. He would only have a heartbeat to get his pistol out and open fire. If necessary, he could shoot through the mylar, but that would just be the start of their troubles. The element of surprise would be completely lost; there was no disguising the Beretta’s distinctive bark. Everyone for miles around would know they were here. There was no way he could evade pursuit for more than a few minutes, carrying the semi-comatose Carter along.

The footsteps creaked closer, practically on top of them, now. For a moment, nothing happened, then the roof shook, sending tendrils of dry snow sifting through the cracks. Stifling his instinctive flinch for the pistol, O’Neill realized what had happened.

The jaffa had rested his staff blaster against the lean-to, mistaking it for being part of the tree trunk!

He held his breath, practiced being still and small, and wished he could stop his body’s metabolic rhythms. Anything to be more quiet. He didn’t even blink, fearing the clicking of his eyelids would betray their position.

The snow creaked again, and shifting slightly, he could see the vague outline of the jaffa kneeling, and adjusting the fastening on one of his boots. After a moment, he straightened, gathered his staff, and stalked off, going to who knows where. O’Neill didn’t care if he wound up in downtown Colorado Springs, just so long as he wasn’t _here_ , being a headache.

The creak of the footsteps faded into the distance, and O’Neill dared to breathe again. For quite a while, he did little other than breathe and listen for the return of the footsteps. Glancing down, he examined Carter’s profile in the dim light filtering into the shelter. She looked much better. The blue tinge was gone, and her skin no longer had the peculiar waxy sheen it had earlier. She was still much paler than usual, but he was no longer as fearful about what might happen. He stroked her hair, and she unconsciously tried to burrow deeper into his chest. He hugged her more tightly, taking comfort in her closeness.

“You don’t know how lucky you are that you’re out cold,” he mumbled. “I’m not sure my poor old heart can handle many more close calls like that.”

Moved by some unnamable impulse, he tilted his head down and kissed her forehead. She smiled in her sleep and made a pleased-sounding humming noise. He rested his cheek against the top of her head and listened to the snow fall.

O’Neill was jolted awake by the squawking of the radio.

“SG-1, this is Hammond, what is your status?”

He hadn’t intended to nod off. Listening to the gentle susurration of snowfall, combined with Carter’s steady, even breathing had whisked him off to LaLaLand, if not directly to sleep. Either way, it was completely inexcusable; he had put both their lives at risk by his dereliction of duty. Still berating himself, he toggled the mike.

“The jaffa’re still out there, general. Carter had an unscheduled swim, so we’re holed up until she dries out.”

“Is Major Carter all right?,” Hammond asked. “Do you need assistance?”

Hammond’s concern for his people was nigh-legendary.

“Negative, sir. Things were a little touchy, but she’s okay now. We just need a little more time.”

“Understood, colonel,” Hammond’s gruff voice echoed in his earpiece. “Have you given any thought to how you’re going to extricate yourselves?”

“Yes, sir, I’ve thought about it a great deal. I’ve got a couple of ideas; I’m just waiting for the right moment to try them out.”

“Roger that, Jack. If you change your mind about the backup, I can have a team waiting on standby in ten minutes. Colonel Campbell’s group just came back from extended recon. You know he’d relish the chance to come get you.”

“God forbid, sir. There’d be nothing of the planet left.”

He could hear the laughter in Hammond’s voice.

“Take care of yourselves, people. Hammond out.”

The radio went silent, and the stillness was once again broken only by the quiet snowfall.

“Things got a little touchy, did they?,” came a quiet voice from somewhere on his chest.

Looking down, he saw her bright blue eyes watching him. There was sanity there, and intelligence. Relief flooded through his body like a tangible wave. Exposure and shock could affect the mind in unforeseeable ways, and he had felt a constant tingle of worry that something might have gone badly wrong.

“I don’t want to sound overly dramatic,” he rumbled, “but yeah, you were on the shady side of dead. It could have gone either way, real easy.”

“Well then,” she said brightly, ”I guess I have a lot to thank you for.”

“Like being a dipshit and putting your life in danger?,” he ventured.

“No, like fishing me out of the water and keeping me from freezing to death.”

“It seemed like the least I could do,” he pointed out.

“Sorry I’m such a pain in the ass,” she apologized.

“You’re not,” O’Neill immediately corrected her, “but even if you were, you’re _my_ pain in the ass.”

She smiled, the impish grin that always took him off-guard.

“Speaking of which…,” she murmured. Carter slid higher up his chest and kissed him, tenderly but firmly on the mouth. He was too stunned to react for a moment. Gently he disengaged and moved her back just far enough to break the lip-lock.

“Carter?,” he asked in surprise. “What’s gotten into you?”

“I’m making up for being a pain in the ass.”

This time she cradled his head in her hands so he couldn’t break away so easily, and kissed him again, still tenderly, but more forcefully this time. He wasn’t going to fight her on this, but he was more confused than anything. He managed to get both her elbows and lever her body backwards. The kiss broke with an audible _pop_.

“What is this?,” consternation written large on his face. “PTSD?”

She stroked his cheek softly.

“Like you said,” she repeated, “I damn near died. I saw… _things_ , people; I don’t really know what. What I _do_ know is that I’m not going to my grave with things unsaid between us. This was too close of a call. Maybe tomorrow morning, or the next day, or the week after, our luck runs out. I’m not leaving you behind with only a locker full of dirty gym socks and a bunch of 'what-ifs'."

She closed her eyes and rested her forehead on his.

“Carter,” he objected weakly, “you don’t have to…”

“Shut up and kiss me," she commanded, steel underlying her tone. A moment later, she added a belated, "sir."

"Are you sure this isn't a delayed reaction?," he suggested, playing for time. "Diminished mental capacity or something? "

"There's nothing wrong with my mental capacity," she whispered in his ear, twining fingers in his hair.

"It just feels like I'm taking advantage of you."

She fixed him with a level glare.

"Did it ever cross your mind that I _want_ you to take advantage of me?"

He had nothing to say to that.

"Sir, you need to wrap your head around the idea that in about ten minutes there’s going to be a lot of sex going on in here. You can be a willing participant or not."

"Carter," he said, deflating, "you're naked. You can drop the 'sir'."

"Whatever you say," she breathed in his ear. "Now be a pal, and get those pants off."

With a surreal feeling, he started unbuckling his belt, while she kissed him deeply. He felt reality begin to bend and twist. She tasted like mint candy, and he reveled in the flavor. A thousand times before, he had dreamed of this happening, but like childhood anticipation of Christmas morning, it had always seemed like a far-off event that would never get here.

He slid his pants down, and wrapped both arms around her, returning her kiss with equal frantic energy. She filled his senses completely, becoming the alpha and omega of his universe. Carter straddled him, and he slid inside her, feeling a hot rush that left them both gasping. 

"Oh, my God," she whispered reverently, pushing herself upright so she could put her full weight on his hips. They fell into an easy rhythm that wasn’t fast, but full of urgency. He realized he needed her as badly, if not more so, as she needed him.

He grasped her hips, pulling her as close as he could, and she groaned, feeling him throb inside her.

"No yelling," he cautioned during the lull. "Bad guys are still out there."

She giggled, but kept rocking on him. Oxytocin and endorphins thundered through their systems like stampeding buffalo. The feeling of closeness, of _connection_ was intoxicating, especially for two people who habitually held the world at arm’s length. Amid the hot tingling rush O’Neill felt a sense of euphoria begin to build and knew he couldn’t last much longer. 

"Sam, " he gasped warningly.

"Let it come," she groaned, and began grinding on him in earnest.

The first spasm took him by surprise and a moment later she gasped as her own orgasm blossomed. For a timeless moment they rocked in time with each other's throbs. Carter gave a final ecstatic shudder and then slid off him, snuggling into his side. 

"I believe that may have been worth waiting for, " he murmured into her hair. 

She was beaming, grinning from ear to ear.

"Maybe next time you won't be so determined to fight me off, " she said brightly. 

There was the inevitable aftermath of their lovemaking to deal with, and the base quartermaster would be eternally curious how Colonel O’Neill had managed to lose a sock on P8x-XXX. 

She stroked his chest, reveling in the sensation of his skin beneath her fingertips. The silence stretched for several comfortable minutes.

"I've always been worried about _us_ ," she confided suddenly.

"How so?," he asked, puzzled. 

"I was worried it might seem, I don’t know, _weird_."

O'Neill smirked. 

"Our everyday is using a tame wormhole to travel the galaxy and fight aliens. This," he gestured at both of them, "men and women have been doing for as long as there have been men and women. "

"Point taken," she admitted. 

He brushed her hair back from her forehead. 

"How're ya feelin'? It's been quite a day."

"Ravenous, " Carter confessed. "I think I could eat a bear, claws and all. Other than that, not bad."

"Tough broad," O'Neill joked. He fished around the pockets of his discarded coat and pulled out an emergency ration bar. They were supposedly apple cinnamon flavored, but the texture was really sandy, so the end result was not unlike a mouthful of apple cinnamon sawdust. She took the proffered bar with a skeptical look.

"Not broad?," he guessed. "Doll? Dame?"

"Dame I can live with," she said with the familiar impish grin. "Broad belongs back in the 30s with Sam Spade."

"Deal."

He watched her tear into the bar with something less than enthusiasm. Being survival food, they weren’t gourmet, but they would keep the life in a body.

"Have you given any thought to how we get out of this mess?," she asked between bites.

"Yes, I have, and I think I've got it figured out."

He had a hard time wrestling his pants back up in the close confines of the lean-to.

"You wrap up nice and tight, and I'll see if the valet is done with milady's evening gown."

"Don’t forget, sir, it's the satin one with the tulle trim."

"Tulle, gotcha. Fancy."

As soon as she was safely cocooned in the blanket, he pulled her shirt and pants from the shelter front, where they had served admirably as a makeshift door. They were frozen stiff.

"Looks like a little too much starch," he quipped. Getting a firm grip on the hem, he beat the pants against the tree stump. A muffled _clink_ reminded him that Carter had stashed her tool kit in the thigh pocket of her pants. Four good whacks over the stump was enough to remove most of the ice. He repeated with the shirt, then handed both to her. He snagged the extra blanket and draped it over the opening.

While Carter was dressing, he took a good look around. The snow blanketed the forest in a thick velvety layer. Were they not in imminent danger, it would be a lovely, peaceful scene. The daylight was beginning to wane, and he was seized with a sudden panic. Frantically, he checked his watch.

"Shit."

It was 1400 hours.

"What are you shitting about out there?," Carter called. 

"It's 1400 hours," O'Neill grumbled. 

"What happens at 1400?"

"Nothing, specifically."

"Then why are you keeping an eye on the time? ," she asked, poking her head out of the shelter. “Taking meds?”

He hemmed and hawed and generally avoided looking at her.

"Spill it, sir. Hot date?"

She couldn't resist needling him every chance she got.

"Kind of. I'm supposed to meet Colonel Gathers at 1600," he replied uneasily. 

"I've never heard of him. Who is he? Or is he a she?"

Her eyes narrowed and a scowl quickly started forming. He looked uncomfortable, like he was being forced into an unhappy confession.

"Marine Corps colonel, runs the recruiting station in Colorado Springs. He's in charge of the Toys for Tots thing they do."

Her eyebrows climbed in surprise. 

"Turns out the Marines are great at collecting toys, but they suck at distribution. Gathers and I take them to the 'God's Littlest Angels' orphanage."

Her jaw dropped. 

"Sir, I never would have guessed."

He huffed, watching his breath turning to steam. This was mildly embarrassing for him to admit.

"Well, it's a good reason to get spruced up without having to worry about impressing Air Force brass."

"Then we better hurry."

She finished lacing up her boots.

"I'll race ya, sir."

He snorted. 

"Low and slow, Carter. This is no time to get in a hurry."

She shrugged into her coat.

"So, what's the plan, sir?"

"Well," he collected his P90 and tabbed it to his carry strap. "First, we're gonna set up a diversion, then we're gonna pull the slickest bit of trickeration you've ever seen. Get your rifle; the jaffa won’t wait.”

He playfully swatted her butt as she went by.

Their path had described a wide semicircle from the hill where the spy array was located. Rather than retrace their steps, they cut across country, taking a rough compass bearing on the vector where the gate should have been located. While they had hiked every bit of five miles around, it was little more than three quarters of a mile when they took the direct overland route. 

The jaffa were still out there. Every so often, one of the search party’s horns would be blown; not a signal blast, just the sort of relaxed, easygoing toot that said, ‘We’re not giving up, keep working, I’m over here’. The snow muffled sounds of friend and foe alike, reducing what should have been an advantage for them. The armored jaffa could not negotiate the forest as easily as the lightly-outfitted SG team, but every sense was still screamingly alert as they ghosted through the frozen landscape.

Within ten minutes they were looking at the stargate through a thick stand of trees. A lone jaffa was still standing guard, doing a great deal of pacing around to try and keep warm. Picking him off from this range would have been a piece of cake for experienced sharpshooters, but the directive to maintain a non-observable presence was still paramount. O’Neill waved Carter further back into the forest, far beyond the point where they could have been visible, and had a quick group conference.

“The goal is to get these gomers out of here without engaging them,” he explained. “I’m going to rig a delayed grenade. As soon as it goes off, the gate guard there should run off to investigate. When he does, we lay down a set of tracks leading to the gate, dial out, and then vanish back under cover.”

“Wouldn’t it make sense to just clear out as soon as the guard’s gone?,” she asked. “Throwing an extra layer of subterfuge out there is risky, sir.”

“You still have to replace that capacitor frammis-thing and get our spy gear online,” he reminded her. “That won’t be safe to do until our neighbors are gone. Everybody’s going to be running to the noise to investigate, so we should have plenty of time to lay the false trail, dial the gate and get under cover.”

She nodded understanding.

“I’m assuming you have some devious booby trap up your sleeve, right, sir?”

He grinned tightly.

“Oh, it’s a doozy.”

They had to go two hundred yards deeper into the forest to find the exact configuration of trees O’Neill wanted. Carter watched in fascination as he bent back a small tree branch, tying it off to another nearby tree under full tension. A second line was tied to the branch, this one running to the pin of a fragmentation grenade. O’Neill gingerly eased the pin almost all the way out, leaving just enough in the fuse casing to hold the spoon in place. As soon as the tension on the first line was released, the branch would whip the pin clean out of the grenade, and seconds later it would detonate.

“Pretty slick,” Carter commented, impressed in spite of herself. “How will you cut the rope? We don’t have any remote detonators.”

“If we did, that would mean we had C4, and I wouldn’t have to go through this Grizzly Adams rigamarole,” he groused. He produced a small white candle, no bigger than his pinkie.

“Emergency candle,” he explained. “Calculated fifteen minute burn time. Oodles of time for us to get in position.

He opened a cylinder of windproof matches and used one to soften the candle’s base enough for it to be jammed into the tree’s bark. When it burned down, the flame would cross the line holding the branch, and then, boom. O’Neill lit the candle, then jabbed the still-lit match into the snow to quench it. Trying to blow it out would be futile.

“How do you get all this useful gear in your vest?,” Carter complained. “Yeah, I had the emergency blanket, but the rest of mine is worthless crap like athlete’s foot powder and orange drink mix.”

“Then change it out,” he said simply. “You’re a major. Tell the quartermaster what you want in your vest, and he’ll make it happen.”

“That easy?,” she asked in disbelief.

“That easy,” he confirmed.

“So what would you have done if it was windy? The candle trick wouldn’t have worked.”

“Burn that bridge when I get to it,” replied offhandedly.

“Now you’re dragging out the puns,” she grumbled. “That was uncalled-for.”

O’Neill motioned her along. With the candle burning, they were on a time table, however lax it might be. They retraced their steps, then circled around to the far side of the gate, away from the booby-trapped grenade. He watched Carter proudly as she moved stealthily from tree to tree, maximizing every scrap of cover. 

Though he would never admit it, he’d shared her concern that their intimacy might make things weird. A greater fear on his part was how it might affect his thought processes in the field. He might unintentionally be more reluctant to allow her in harm’s way. This was a new dynamic he’d have to explore more deeply, likely discussing it with Carter herself. He sighed. This was going to complicate matters, no matter what happened.

They had always worked well together, like the figurative hand in glove. With a smirk, he admitted that they were now more like a literal hand in glove. Hard-won experience had left each with an almost uncanny intuition about the other’s intentions and probable actions. Possibly, their newfound physical relationship was just a natural outgrowth of their existing working relationship. It was certain there was very little she could do to make him trust her _more_ , as she already had his complete faith and confidence. This was going to be interesting regardless of how things turned out.

They arrived at the nearest point to the gate O’Neill thought they could get away with, a bare twenty-five yards distance, though there was plenty of heavy cover to screen their approach. He checked his watch. Seven minutes down, somewhere in the neighborhood of eight to go. Motioning her to follow suit, he plunked down on his butt and started peeling his boots off.

“Okay, what next, mountain man?,” she ribbed when their boots were off.

“Tricky part you’re gonna love,” he enthused. “Get plenty of lace loose, turn the boot around so your heel is where the toe should be, and wrap the boot to your foot.”

She raised an eye skeptically.

“When the guard’s gone, we walk through the gate from this side, down the other side to the DHD, dial out, and go off into the forest leaving the gate active. They hear the gate activate, come running back and see two sets of footprints coming out of the forest to the DHD to the gate and through, then jump to the wrong conclusion and assume we got away.”

“And if anyone follows us through, they splat on the iris, right?”

“Oh, hell no,” he said. “I’m not using _our_ address. We do that, we may as well leave the Goa’uld a signed, notarized letter stating that we did this. No, I’m gonna use someone else’s address. Probably Cimmeria.”

“Is that wise?,” Carter asked, thinking of all the grief and destruction the Goa’uld had already caused the Cimmerians.

“Thor repaired the de-Goa’uld-ing part of the Hammer, they’re back on the Protected Planets list, and all the bad guys have an in-born aversion to going there anyway. Seems like a safe bet.”

Carter was glad this wasn’t a reckless decision on his part. The chain of reasoning was sound, and his plan as a whole was inventive, if a little unorthodox. Especially the odd part with the backwards boots. 

They were busy cobbling together their strange footgear, and O’Neill was griping about his missing sock when the sharp _crump_ of an explosion ripped through the still air.

The guard was instantly on the alert; a heretofore unseen staff blaster appeared as if by magic, and he glared intently at the sector of the forest where the explosion had been. The dull orange winking of fire was just barely visible flickering through the trees in the distance. After a moment’s hesitation, he blew a loud blast on his horn. Others blared in reply. Before they had held a sense of business as usual. That had been replaced with an undercurrent of urgency.

“Come on, sucker, move it,” O’Neill encouraged the jaffa under his breath. “Be curious. Go take a look.”

After nearly a full minute of standing stock-still, the guard stalked off into the trees. A smudge of thick black smoke was visible now, sending tendrils snaking into the overcast sky. The minute he was out of sight, O’Neill’s hand descended on Carter’s shoulder.

“Go,” he ordered, following right behind her.

It was awkward going. Their boots were made for wearing one way, and one way only. This was manageable, but they were never going to win any races like this. Their footprints pushed through the thin, unblemished coating of snow in front of the gate, and showed dark smudges where they wore through into the mud. The horns were sounding at regular intervals, and they could hear them getting closer. 

O’Neill pulled up at the DHD and quickly punched in the address for Cimmeria, hoping he was remembering it right. The familiar splash of the stabilizing event horizon shined a brilliant white light all around, emphasizing how dark the overcast, gloomy sky had grown. As Carter trudged on into the trees, he surveyed the trail they’d left: a long line of muddy footmarks outlined in the pristine snow. He couldn’t have arranged a better-looking fake if he’d had all day to work on it. He quickly clumped along after Carter.

They slipped and slid and managed to scramble up the low hill to where they’d started out, hours before. The array was untouched, still covered by his poncho, O’Neill noticed as they sat to adjust their boots. The toes of his sockless feet felt half frozen, so he spent a minute rubbing some feeling back into them. There was little else to do for the time being.

At the sound of the gate opening, the horns had fallen silent. As he sat there massaging his cold foot, armored forms began emerging from the trees. When the nearest was scarcely a dozen feet from the DHD, the gate shut down, returning the area to a sunless, somber hue. As the others drifted up, an animated discussion broke out, with at least two factions taking different sides. Much pointing and shouting ensued, and O’Neill started to wish he had popcorn, so he could properly enjoy the spectacle.

“Everybody present and accounted for?,” he asked Carter.

“Five grunts, one officer. That’s the whole team, sir, unless they had some reinforcements we don’t know about.”

“Good news, good news,” he said gleefully, watching the argument unfold. “If there were any more of them running around out there, they’d still be tooting their bugles.” At last, an agreement of some sort was reached. The leader dialed the DHD, and after the gate activated, all six jaffa departed together.

“Did you see where they were going?,” he asked. “It didn’t look like the address I dialed, so maybe they decided to give up and go home.”

“I can only hope so,” she agreed.

“Sir?,” she asked a moment later. “How did they know we were here? There’s no way this was a coincidence; the galaxy’s too big for that to even be conceivable. They had to have solid intel, about where and when.” Her forehead wrinkled in thought. Unfortunately, all the thoughts she was having trended in the same direction, and were not at all reassuring. 

“Looks like we got a leak somewhere, major,” he finally answered. “Hammond’s gonna be pissed.”

“I get the sneaky feeling he won’t be the only one, colonel.”

O’Neill snorted, then looked at his watch.

“Shit. Let’s get this magic box fixed so we can get the hell out of here.”

She turned to get started, and he drew a deep, hesitant breath.

“Oh, Carter, about what, ummm, happened…?”

She gave him an innocent look, which made him all the more uncomfortable.

“I was pretty out of it back there, sir, what with the hypothermia and all. I don’t really remember anything clearly. I hope I didn’t do or say anything too… embarrassing.”

O’Neill felt the odd vertigo-like twist in his stomach as reality did a 180-degree turn.

She was giving him an ‘out’. God Bless her precious soul, she was giving him an out. It would buy him some time, let him think some things through. However much he may have loved her before, he loved her ten times more beginning in that moment.

 _Sweet merciful Jesus_ , he thought, _what did I ever do to deserve to meet a woman like you?_

“Carter,” he said, voice husky with emotion, “there is nothing you could do _EVER_ to cause your CO embarrassment. Carry on.”

She had the array torn down in seconds, and again, he watched her work.

There was nothing he could ever do, he answered his own question, to deserve Carter’s affections, but she seemed to think he did, and he’d learned to trust her judgement as much as his own. This was going to be an interesting ride, to say the least.

Installing the new capacitor took less than two minutes. She powered up the array, looked at the blinking lights sprinkled over its surface and seemed satisfied.

“All done, sir,” she reported, swinging the cover shut and securing it.

“Let’s blow this pop stand,” he said, offering her a hand up.

It may have just been his imagination, but her hand seemed to linger in his a heartbeat longer than necessary. Yeah, that was it, he mused; probably just his imagination.

Hammond met them at the foot of the embarcation ramp. Steam from the superconducting magnets rose through the grating around him, giving him the look of a bleached Satan surveying his domain.

“Spy doohickey is back online, sir,” O’Neill reported with a truncated salute. “We can go back to eavesdropping on our neighbors whenever you’re ready.”

Hammond looked the two of them up and down. They were a sight: disheveled, smeared with various shades of mud and dirt, and dripping with melting snow.

“Well done, people,” he complimented them. “By the way, Jack, there’s been a Marine Corps colonel burning up my phone lines all afternoon. I’d appreciate it if you would call him back so we can have at least _one_ line open for official business here.” 

Hammond’s eyes were twinkling with suppressed mirth, and O’Neill could see that he was fully aware of what was going on. Groaning internally, he nodded.

“Yes, sir.”

“We’ll debrief day after tomorrow. Merry Christmas colonel, major. Dismissed.”

O’Neill made a beeline for the nearest wall phone, dialing a number from memory. Carter tagged along, eavesdropping, to see if the sequel would prove as interesting as the rest of the day had been.

“Hunter?,” he said into the phone. “Yeah, it’s Jack… I’m running a little late… Nope, I wouldn’t miss this for the world… Yeah… Hey, question for you. Is it alright to bring a guest?”

He snorted at something the other person said.

“Colonel Gathers, you know better than that… Major Carter… Yes… There’s never been a ‘Colonels Only’ rule before… Oh, don’t give me that. We’re on our way.”

He hung the phone up and winked at Carter.

“Got a set of dress blues on base?”

Oh, yes, she thought. The sequel was going to prove to be _very_ interesting.


End file.
